


Repetitive Action

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, original prompt: spanking, written for the kink-meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76





	Repetitive Action

The first time’s entirely accidental. Olivia’s high on a peyote mash Walter cooked up, Broyles is scowling in the corner, and Peter’s trying to juggle an over-excited father, the bank of monitors and a Federal employer who’s on the brink of arresting them all. “Was this necessary?” Broyles says threateningly.

“Absolutely,” Walter replies, completely missing Peter’s frantic hand-motion. “We ought to get Agent Dunham high more often, hey son?”

“Plus it was relevant to the case,” Peter tries.

 _“How?” ___

Exactly the question he was hoping to avoid, Peter looks toward Astrid, eyebrows quirked helplessly because he only walked into the lab five minutes before Broyles arrived; Astrid appears as if she’s trying not to laugh, but she rescues his father by coming forward with a version of events less ludicrous and somehow more official. Olivia’s been exposed to psychedelics before but her response to LSD’s muted, as if her tolerance levels exceed even that of Walter. Peter steers away from any and all pharmaceutical remedies - if only because it turns his mental faculties loopy in less than five seconds - further evidence he and his father are nothing alike. “Hey,” Peter whispers, tapping his fingers lightly against Olivia’s cheek.

Distantly, Peter notices her reaction to peyote is different to LSD. Olivia’s skin is flushed with the mescaline properties, body uncoordinated, minor lurches rocking her forward as she twitches in her seat; her pupils dilated, pulse rushing against Peter’s fingertips like a subterranean river. “Hey,” she slurs in response, turning her cheek into his palm.

“You’re supposed to wait,” Peter reminds. He doesn’t trust Walter and someone needs to keep an eye on Olivia if she’s messing with his father’s drugs. The last woman Peter cared about who used with frequency, wound up dead on the kitchen floor when Peter was sixteen. _She’s supposed to wait _. “I think you and I should take a walk…what do you say?”__

“A two-step?”

“A nimble jive,” he agrees.

Olivia’s eyes open, the smile impossibly sweet. “I’d like to see that dance.”

Peter brushes the hair from Olivia’s face and grins at her expression, unable to stop himself; conscious of Broyles, of the working decorum she needs to maintain, Peter slaps Olivia on both thighs; open palmed, brisk, and moves to stand away from her personal space. “Come on, Cyd Charisse, up you get.” Olivia arches, there’s no other word for it, shoulder blades sinking into the cushions, pelvis tilting upward in a quick thrust; her eyelashes flutter to half-mast.

Peter stutters. He glances quickly toward Broyles and breathes easier when he realises no one’s seen; he watches the sweat collect in the hollow of Olivia’s throat, the rosy flush disappearing beneath the v-neck of her shirt and silently thinks, _Huh. ___

The second time they’re on the sidewalk at seven pm; it’s been a week of unrelenting heat and they’re both stripped to t-shirts, faded jeans; Peter’s leaning against a telephone pole while Olivia faces his profile, one arm draped across his shoulders, mouth near his ear, her legs stationed either side of his body; they look like any young couple in love, chatting together, bodies intimate as they wait for a cab. Peter’s played various parts before – brother Rick to her Stephanie, nameless accomplice to her trade-deals – but he appreciates the progress to ‘designated boyfriend’ more than he cares to admit. Peter’s distracted by her scent; by the way her hand flirts across his torso or how her fingers wiggle into the back pocket of his jeans. Olivia’s warm, deceptively loose. “I have him in my sights,” she whispers into Peter’s ear.

“Hold position,” Broyles’ answers gruffly in the other.

If the baritone isn’t a mood killer, Peter doesn’t know what is. Olivia smirks and leans her cheek against his torso, head resting beneath Peter’s collarbone, watching their mark as he nears the building. Paul Gierette stops outside the vestibule and lights a cigarette, the brief flare of a match highlighting his features. “He’s watching us,” Olivia giggles. _Giggles. ___

Peter thumps his head against the telephone pole and mutters, “You’re doing my head in.”

The laugh this time is under Olivia’s breath, authentic, she turns her face into his t-shirt, rubbing the bridge of her nose against him. “You don’t like the act?”

Peter pulls her close, mouth on the crown of her head, “Some parts of it I don’t object to at all.”

Olivia raises her eyes to make contact, gaze assessing, then taps her earpiece as a blatant reminder. “He’s walking toward us,” Olivia informs Broyles. She nudges upward, nose brushing his five o’clock shadow; until Peter has to remind himself Broyles can hear every word being said, there’s a freak-show criminal fast approaching, and an untimely erection while running is not conducive to an event-free arrest. He needs Olivia to back off a little bit and can’t verbalise why, or at least, not without turning the conversation into all kinds of public awkwardness. Peter sees Gierette approach out of the corner of his eye; he leans forward, sharing breath and summer heat with Olivia; Peter kisses her on the cheek the same instant his hand slaps down hard on her butt. Instead of pulling away or acting like the affronted girlfriend he expects, Olivia jolts forward, climbing his thigh like a tree, teeth scraping against his pulse point with a breathy moan, her pelvis grinds against his quad. Paul Gierette ambles past, his mouth twitching into a smirk, the universal code of _‘hey man, good catch’ _, when he’s out of sight Olivia drops down, pacing away as if nothing happened, a frown marring her features as she speaks into the bug. “Suspect’s heading toward Coral street, do you have spotters in position?”__

“Affirmative,” Broyles answers. Olivia trots toward the surveillance van parked out of sight, leaving Peter boneless and sweaty against the streetlamp, heat pooling between his legs.

In the third year of their association Peter thinks to hell with it, he has a working hypothesis and a need to verify it. Practical applications ought to be applied. The third time is deliberate, premeditated and thought out well in advance.

Olivia’s sprawled on the bedcovers, sorting through a stack of folders piled on the floor beneath her, black glasses perched on the tip of her nose, arms and head dangling off the edge of the bed as she flicks through report after report. She’s wearing Peter’s t-shirt and not much else, pantiless and pert, flashing glimpses of pale skin every time she shifts position. Peter crawls to the end of the bed, finger tracing along the acre of soft flesh, the sweet spot where thigh meets buttock, hiking the t-shirt up by millimetres, he can see the natural tan lines on Olivia’s arms and legs, her derriere perfectly formed, split down the centre like an overripe apple. He keeps his touch light, a sweeping stroke with the edge of his thumb. Olivia peers over her shoulder, a smile slipping the corners of her mouth up. She hooks her finger on the arm of her reading glasses and drops them onto the floor, wiggles her body backward until her head’s supported on the bed. The movement rides the t-shirt up, an invitation Peter can’t ignore, he strips it over her head without fuss and sets a kiss to her hipbone, hand running to the small of her back then sweeping down again. The first tap is experimental, eyes fixed firmly on Olivia’s face. “I’m not going to invoke the full disclosure rule,” Peter confides, “it takes the fun out of forming my own theories, but you need to verbalise if you don’t approve.”

Her mouth’s parted, the dilation of her eyes the same as when Olivia was drugged with peyote; her only answer is thirty seconds of eye contact before Olivia lowers her head to the covers, cants her bottom into the air. There’s a theory to it, searching for thresholds of pain only to surpass them with each successive strike, running through the scales of sensation. He spanks her twice, left-side right-side with medium force, sudden enough to startle her, hard enough to make Olivia squirm with second thoughts. Olivia presses into the mattress, breath hissing between her teeth, the skin reddening under the impact. When no words are uttered, when Olivia doesn’t pull away or back out, Peter relaxes. In the following sweep, Peter tapers the strike pattern into light hits, the concussive pattern felt in Chinese massage, not painful but hitting the same cheek, the exact same spot each and every time. Olivia’s breathing elevates. She rocks minutely, rubbing into the sheets, raising her hips as she angles to meet him. Olivia’s biting her lip as he increases the intensity, driving the sensation up by notches, her skin on the right cheek turning hot, blossoming fiery red. There’s nothing but the bitten off noises she makes, the harsh impact of flesh against flesh. Peter switches mid-stroke, brings his hand down punishingly hard on the left cheek, untouched until now, unacclimated to the rising pain. Olivia’s fingers claw into the bedspread, spine arched, she gives off a stuttering cry, smothering her mouth against her own forearm. Her body’s locked tight when Peter pries her cheeks apart and pushes inward with his tongue, circumnavigating the muscle and sinking into another heat entirely, both hands framing her flanks as he kneads the bruised flesh. Olivia’s not silent; he stays there for long minutes, tongue undulating in stabbing pulses, hands tight on her hips. When Peter withdraws Olivia’s gasping, he sees her gathering her arms beneath her, preparing to twist. Peter tucks in close, spreads his own thighs wide in order to spread _her _wide, and spanks Olivia again, he focuses solely on the left cheek, working in reverse order, hard, hard, hard that peters out into gentling, turning the corner to soft, until the action is nothing but repetitive strokes of his thumb, sweeping from the small of her back to the sweet spot beneath her buttocks.__

She’s wet, Peter can smell the arousal; can see the sweat gathered at her nape. Olivia turns her head to look at him with one eye, mouth swollen, “Peter,” she says huskily, “Peter, come _here _.”__

It pulls him forward like he’s been roped, the erection Peter’s nursing suddenly insistent, demanding. He drags Olivia to hands and knees, palm smoothing down her back, kisses alighting on the fragile knobs of her spine, he slides into her without resistance, her muscles languid, fitting around his form. Her bottom, pressed firmly against his groin, feels like the edge of a corona, heat shared between them as he waits. Olivia pushes off from her hands, balanced on her knees, one hand looped around Peter’s neck for balance as she rides him, breasts bared, the muscles in her thighs working as she clenches with every movement. It's not an easy position to maintain, thrust too hard and Peter will knock them both off balance, it staves off orgasm, everything reduced to the origin of contact between them until it builds by notches. Olivia's hand clenches in his hair, twisting her neck awkwardly; the kiss is messy, slightly out of whack, in tune with everything they are to one another.


End file.
